


A Reluctant Partnership

by Jay Trent (Bluewolf458)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 05:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11178285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluewolf458/pseuds/Jay%20Trent
Summary: Although Doyle is reluctant to accept a partner, Cowley insists he be partnered with Bodie. They are both men with secrets to hide...





	A Reluctant Partnership

**Author's Note:**

> First printed in Celebrations 1 (1999)

   
A Reluctant Partnership  
   
by Jay Trent

  
   
  
Ray Doyle sighed as he returned to the 'office', knowing that before he could go off duty he had a difficult report to compile.  
   
The surveillance had gone badly wrong; the two men he had been watching had, contrary to Cowley's expectations, separated; he had, almost arbitrarily, chosen which of them to follow, only to discover that the man had met up with someone else; by the time backup had arrived, they too had separated.  
   
Doyle chose to follow his original target, only to be held up, just as Dawson crossed the street, by a rush of traffic released from a red light. By the time Doyle was able to cross the road, his target was entering a tube station, and although he ran, he was additionally held up by the tube employee who moved to intercept his vault over the entrance turnstile. Thrusting his ID in the man's face, he plunged down the stair with a reckless disregard for his neck, but was only halfway down when Dawson stepped aboard a train, and had just reached the platform when the train moved off.  
   
Swearing at the bloody-mindedness of the driver (who of course had no way of knowing that anyone running for a train couldn't afford to wait five minutes for the next one) Doyle climbed back up the stair, found a quiet corner and thumbed his RT. "4.5 to 1.4. How's it going, mate?"  
   
There was a brief pause, then, "1.4 here. Bugger made it onto a moving bus before I could get across the road."  
   
Doyle grunted. "'N's only on TV that there's a handy taxi that the good guy can catch to follow the villain's bus. Okay, I'm heading back to Base to report."  
   
"Right, see you there."  
   
Doyle returned his RT to his pocket, glanced round, decided that the tube was his fastest way back to Base and re-entered the station. This time he stopped to buy a ticket and took his time descending the stair, not even admitting to himself that he was in any way reluctant to get back and face Cowley.  
   
Cowley was not going to be a happy bunny; and not for the first time, Doyle admitted to himself that a partner would make life a helluva lot easier for him a lot of the time. Today, for example, two of them would have been able to split up, one to follow Dawson and one to follow Balder, who might have done anything after he parted company with Dawson. He was not, however, quite prepared to come right out and tell Cowley that. He had too often, and for reasons that were valid to himself, argued long and hard against the Cow's suggestion that he might benefit from having a partner, for he had not forgotten his feelings when Sid Parker was killed; as he had told Cowley, he was unwilling to expose himself to that sort of pain again.  
   
He knew his own nature too well; he knew that he would be unable to have a permanent partner without - eventually - developing a loyalty that bordered on love. There were other reasons, too, that he was not willing to admit to anyone. No - better by far to continue solo but with the occasional temporary partner or backup when necessary. Not even to himself did he concede that his pride wouldn't let him admit to Cowley that he occasionally came close to changing his mind about having a regular partner.  
 

  
***

   
  
He was right; Cowley was not happy about the situation, while not blaming Doyle - or Walker - for losing the men they were tailing.  
   
"However," he told Doyle, his voice saying clearly that he was not on this occasion prepared to listen to any argument, "this confirms what I have been saying for some time. Different agents have different skills; the kind of job you are most suitable for is also the kind of job that is better handled by two men working together. Today, for example - oh, you'd still have had to call for backup when Dawson met up with his next contact - backup which arrived today because 1.4 was in the area - and I know you didn't have time to call for anyone when Dawson and Balder split, but as a result we don't know what Balder did. You may even have followed the wrong man - yes, I know you had to make a snap decision and in your position Dawson was the one I'd have followed - but if there had been someone else with you, the question would not have arisen.  
   
"I know you've always resisted having a partner, Doyle, and so far I've humoured you - I understand your reason. However, when the efficiency of this department is hampered by that resistance, it's time for me - and you - to reconsider your attitude."  
   
Doyle hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "To be honest, sir, I'd already come to that conclusion myself. I'm still not anxious to have a permanent partner - but I'll accept the need for it. Just one thing, though - I'd like to select my own partner... maybe from the new batch in training?"  
   
"Well, he'd have to come from the new intake," Cowley agreed, rather to Doyle's surprise; his demand had been a last-stand resistance, one that he had not expected Cowley to accept. "I did have one of them in mind, but I'll at least give you the right of refusal if you can give me a good reason - based on his performance, not on your reaction to him as a person. The man I have in mind... well, you'll find his personality a trifle... abrasive. He'll not be all that keen on getting a partner either; he's not been used to depending on anyone but himself."  
   
Putting me on my mettle to prove myself to the guy, eh, Cowley? "What's his background?"  
   
"Paras, SAS... Before that he was a mercenary for several years. All the kind of work where there's group effort but ultimately a man's own fitness and determination is all that stands between him and death."  
   
"Not a bloke with a death wish?"  
   
"Hardly, or he wouldn't have survived this long. No, he's good, Doyle; even Macklin admitted that, and Crane said there wasn't much he didn't know. His army enlistment ended six months ago and he's been doing some security work since then - and he hasn't let his fitness slip. He doesn't particularly want a partner," Cowley repeated deliberately, knowing that the information would irritate Doyle and make him determined to win the man over to the idea of working willingly with a partner - and also knowing that Doyle would be aware of this. "Said he would prefer to work solo. You may find it takes a while to earn his loyalty; he won't give it readily."  
   
Doyle grunted, knowing exactly what Cowley meant; for he, too, was a man who did not give his loyalty readily - even although, once earned, it would be absolute. His new partner would have to earn that trust, and - Doyle admitted to himself - it would not be easily earned either, for all of his instincts would be fighting against it. He actively did not want to become emotionally involved again with anyone, either on or off duty.  
   
Cowley waited, respecting Doyle's moment of thought, then said quietly, "The new men are working with Macklin this afternoon. Would you like to see them in action?"  
   
Doyle hid his surprise at Cowley's words. The Old Man was rarely that considerate of what his men might want; on the other hand, Doyle knew that he was one of CIS's best operatives, and Cowley would want to keep him sweet, so to speak. He nodded. "Yeah," he said.    "Let's see if I pick out the same one you did."  
   
Doyle was one of the few men who knew of Cowley's spyhole at the gym, the two-way glass that, on the gym side, looked no different from any of the other bricked-up windows that had once graced the building. It was from here that Cowley - or, occasionally, one of his top men, such as Doyle - watched the progress of a new intake or that of the more junior members of CIS on the refresher courses that the squad had to suffer on a regular basis. Those top men - Doyle himself, Murphy, Lucas and McCabe - did not actually need to be sent for refresher courses, although of course they occasionally were; one of the things that made them Cowley's top men was their own awareness of their fitness, which, depending on their duties, led them to visit the gym at least once a week, sometimes more often, for a workout, either with each other (supervised by Macklin) or with Macklin himself.  
   
Now Doyle stood at Cowley's shoulder watching the new intake - five men and two women - sparring. Some gym equipment had been pulled out from the wall, and had clearly been in use earlier. Doyle noted with approval that the men working out with the women pulled no punches; the bad guys certainly wouldn't, and it was as well for the women to know right from the start just what they could expect to face. Cowley was a man who seemed totally oblivious of the meaning of the word chivalry; he used his staff impartially, and the women in the squad could expect to be treated exactly the same as the men, running exactly the same risks - indeed, in some cases, running greater risks, for Cowley was not above using them as decoys if he thought that would draw out the opposition.  
   
Macklin himself was sparring with one of the men, and Doyle's eyes widened slightly as he recognised the skill with which the man responded. After some moments, he said so. Cowley grunted. "Yes, he's good. What about the others?"  
   
Doyle watched for a few seconds, wincing in sympathy as one of the men just barely dodged an unpulled kick, designed to incapacitate any man, from one of the women. "She's good, too," he commented as she darted in, taking advantage of her assailant's ever-so-brief moment of 'thank God I dodged that one', grabbed an arm and put him into an armlock that he was clearly unable to counter. She held him for a count of five, then released her grip and stepped back. He said something to her, she grinned, then they circled each other again, both poised for an opening.  
   
"Yes, she's good," Cowley agreed. "But I'm not partnering you with any woman, Doyle, especially not that one." He fell silent again, watching carefully. "She already has a committed relationship," he went on, answering Doyle's unspoken question, "and she'll be partnered with her lover."  
   
"Is that wise, sir?" Doyle remembered only too clearly how he had reacted when Parker died - and he and Parker had not been lovers.  
   
"Ancient Greece, Doyle."  
   
"I don't get it, sir."  
   
"In Greece two thousand years ago there was a crack battalion made up of sworn lovers. For a long time they were unbeatable, for each man of them protected his lover's back and strove to make his lover proud of him. Well, today's attitudes don't allow for that - certainly not in the armed forces - but CIS is not the armed forces; I make the rules, and if a homosexual couple is completely committed, I'm not about to reject them purely on the grounds of their sexuality. Partners guard each other's back, and a committed couple will be that much more - well, committed - to do just that."  
   
"You mean she's queer? That her lover - her partner - is another woman?"  
   
"That's right."  
   
Doyle thought about it for a moment, less concerned about the sexual aspect than the lover aspect. "You're not afraid that they might be so committed to guarding each other that they'd forget the job they were supposed to be doing?" Doyle asked.  
   
"I'll deal with that when it happens," Cowley replied. "But it hasn't happened yet. They each want to make the other proud of them, remember."  
   
"Huh?"  
   
Cowley glanced sideways for a moment before returning his attention to the gym. "Although it is no longer illegal in private, homosexual couples do have to maintain considerable discretion," he conceded. "Granted you have had no reason to suspect that any of your fellow agents might be that way inclined, but if you haven't identified them, I think there is little chance that anyone else will."  
   
Doyle thought frantically, then shook his head.  
   
"Well, I'm not about to betray their confidence," Cowley told him, "but since I know about it, the danger of blackmail - which is one of the main reasons the armed forces regard it with less than enthusiasm - does not exist. Can you identify the man I consider the best of this intake?"  
   
"The one up against Macklin," Doyle answered immediately.  
   
Cowley's lips twisted in a frosty smile. "I suppose that was an inevitable assumption," he admitted, "but you're right. His name's Bodie."  
   
"Just Bodie?"  
   
"William Andrew Philip. He refuses to answer to anything but Bodie, he told me, but gave no reason why."  
   
_Well,_ Doyle thought, _he wouldn't be the first man to dislike his given names_ , though it was rare for anyone to take that dislike to such extremes. Usually they picked a name they did like, and told everyone that that was their name, or acquired a nickname they could tolerate somewhere along the way and used it. They rarely told anyone their given name(s) and then informed the world that they would only answer to their surname.  
   
So... this man was an original, and not one to hide what he saw as his faults - not that his name was his own fault!  
   
Even before Cowley had confirmed which man had been selected as his partner, Doyle's attention had been drawn to the man sparring with Macklin, recognising his quality. Bodie had an almost telepathic awareness of where his opponent was going to aim next... Doyle grinned slightly, dismissed the thought as whimsy, and told himself that his partner-to-be obviously had extremely fast reflexes and an inspired ability to read an opponent's body language - something Doyle himself possessed, though - he admitted to himself somewhat wryly - not to quite so marked an extent.  
   
Having satisfied himself as to his new partner's abilities, Doyle turned his full attention on the other trainees, assessing each one with a practised eye. None of them was quite up to Bodie's standard, he decided. Of the other four men, one was almost as good as Bodie, two were better than average but the fourth, who looked hardly old enough to have begun shaving, was clearly struggling. Both women were good, one - the one he had already noticed - clearly somewhat better than the other, certainly as good as the second-best man, while the second was on a par with the other two men.  
   
He said so.  
   
Cowley nodded. "Yes." He watched in silence for some moments, while the man who was struggling finally failed to dodge a vicious kick and went down, gasping. His opponent stood back, giving him - in this training session - time to recover but, both watchers noted approvingly, clearly alert to the possibility that it was a bluff.  
   
Macklin spoke to his opponent and stepped back; Bodie also stepped back but he, too, remained alert. Macklin grinned approvingly, reached for a whistle and blew it sharply. The fighters stopped; the second woman dropped to one knee, finally admitting her exhaustion, but the first one remained on her feet, giving the impression that she could carry on all day if necessary.  
   
Macklin's voice carried clearly to the watching men. "Take ten; then we'll go out and do a bit of running."  
   
"How close are they to finishing training?" Doyle asked, sure in his own mind that it was very close.  
   
"Tomorrow should be the last day."  
   
Doyle grunted. "Even for the one who went down?"  
   
"Aye. Not everyone is a born athlete, Doyle. I'm content if he can hold his own, not be a liability to anyone he's working beside. You're comparing him to the rest of the group - aye, even the women. Put him up against any member of the public, and he'll show up not too badly. But he isn't going to be a field agent; his skills lie in another direction."  
   
Doyle threw a quick glance at the older man, but Cowley had clearly said as much as he was going to; Doyle knew that he'd be told no more.  
   
The Cow could be a right cow at times!  
   
They watched the trainees reassemble after a short ten minutes and head out the door at a steady jog, led by Towser. Macklin wiped sweat off his face with a towel and began to put the gym equipment back in its place as Cowley turned away from the window. "They'll be out for fully an hour," he commented. "Stay if you want to watch them come back, but don't try to speak to Bodie and if possible don't let him see you. You'll see him for the first time - officially - the day after tomorrow in my office, nine o'clock - and Doyle, don't try to show your independence by being late."  
   
"Would I do that, sir?"  
   
"Aye, as soon as look at me. But in this instance, remember Bodie has an army background, he's used to punctuality, and he doesn't much want a partner," he added for the third time. Doyle gritted his teeth, knowing he was being baited, determined not to respond. "I've no doubt you'll find each other abrasive right from the start, but there's no point in having him start out thinking you're sloppy. He doesn't, incidentally, know you're one of CI5's top men, and you're not to let him know that. Let him think you're not much more experienced than he is."  
   
Doyle thought about that for a moment. "In case he either gets a superiority complex, knowing he's been teamed with a top man, and gets himself killed trying to prove he's as good or better, or thinks he's being coddled, which he would resent."  
   
"Aye. Are you coming?"  
   
Doyle shook his head. "I'll have half an hour with Brian since I'm here," he replied.  
  
Cowley nodded. "All right. I've an easy surveillance job for you tomorrow - " He hid a smile at the disgusted expression on Doyle's face. "Easy but necessary," he said, his voice sterner than he felt. "I have reason to believe that an attempt may be made - appear to be made - on the life of one of our visiting Russian bureaucrats, but according to my informant, the attempt will be botched - it is being 'staged' by his own men; the real target is a certain defector who has been singing quite sweetly for MI5. Evidence will be found that he is the inept assassin, and Russia will demand his return on a charge of attempted murder. It could lead to quite an unpleasant diplomatic incident. Your job is to provide him with a witness who can testify to his whereabouts all day."  
   
Doyle scowled. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to keep him in protective custody?"  
   
"Probably, but the Russians know he has been allowed considerable freedom of movement. If we suddenly took him into custody, that too could lead to an unpleasant incident. They do not need to know that he has not been under surveillance since he asked for political asylum."  
   
"'Return him' means a death sentence for him. Why don't they just send a hitman after him?"  
   
"I imagine they want to know what he has told MI5," Cowley replied grimly, and with uncharacteristic informativeness.  
   
"Getting him off the hook this time doesn't mean they won't have another go," Doyle muttered.  
   
"The Russian delegation leaves the day after tomorrow - this has been timed to coincide with their departure. By this time next week, he will have a new identity. This is their last chance to - er - retrieve him. Report in at 8 am, and Betty will give you the necessary details. Enjoy your exercise, 4.5."  
   
Doyle watched Cowley leave, shook his head, and went to join Macklin.  
   
He took a few minutes to discuss the new intake with Macklin, then spent half an hour sparring with him; from there he went to the wallbars (since Macklin wanted to get the rest of the gym equipment put away) where he stayed, exercising lightly to cool off until Macklin called over to warn him that the trainees were due back in ten minutes. He moved swiftly into the showers, washed quickly, dressed and slipped back to the upstairs window.  
   
The group had done not too badly, he decided; only the one man looked really tired, but even he had managed to finish with the others. Doyle suspected that Towser had kept the speed within the limits of what the women could manage, for neither of them looked particularly stressed by the run. Doyle looked again at the man he knew was to be his partner, but even his critical eye could see no reason to doubt the man's fitness. Perhaps a trifle over the optimum weight for his height, Doyle thought, though he's certainly within the weight range for it. And it looks like muscle rather than fat.  
   
Well, time would tell.

  
   
***

  
   
  
Doyle spent a boring day watching the non-activity of the Russian defector - this one was definitely overweight, running to fat rather than muscle, though from what he ate during the course of the day - or rather, what he didn't eat - Doyle decided that the problem was probably medical rather than dietary. A less likely assassin would be hard to find, Doyle reckoned; hitmen were of necessity fit, and only a fool would claim that this sedentary man had any chance of trying to be a successful hitman.  
   
Doyle followed the Russian to a supermarket where he bought a loaf of bread, then to a park where he spent some time throwing the bread to the pond ducks before finding a seat in the sunshine and apparently going to sleep for a couple of hours before heading home again. During the day, in accordance with his instructions, Doyle took several photos of his target. Once the man was home and the door closed behind him, Doyle called in to Base.  
   
His day had not been wasted, it appeared; the assassination 'attempt' had indeed been made, and he was ordered to stay where he was until he was relieved, then he had to report back with his photographic evidence.  
 

  
  
***

   
   
  
The Russians were less than pleased at the discovery that their defector had been under surveillance all day (with the implication being made that he had been watched his entire time in Britain), and Cowley's quietly satisfied smile gave Doyle a rare reward for his hours of boredom.  
   
He had a quick meal, then headed out for a lengthy run - he felt restless after his inactive day and wanted to work the twitchiness out of his legs. A circuit taking a couple of hours saw him half a mile from his (for the moment) favourite pub, and he slowed to a brisk walk until he reached it. It was busy, and he nearly walked out again, but he was thirsty and decided that he could tolerate the crush while he downed a quick half pint. Beer in hand, he headed towards the dart board; a reasonably good player himself, he enjoyed watching others playing even when he wasn't participating. Half-way there, he realised that one of the men playing was his soon-to-be partner, and unhesitatingly he moved further on to stand in a shadowy corner, knowing that from here he could watch without being obvious about it.  
   
The man threw a mean dart, he conceded as Bodie scored his third successive 180, and he wondered how well Bodie knew his partner - an older man Doyle had seen several times in the pub. It soon became obvious, however, that there was a tournament in play - a man at a nearby table - a man he knew slightly - muttered something in a less than amicable tone, and Doyle glanced at him. "Something wrong?" he asked, his tone carefully casual.  
   
"Blokes who play like that shouldn't be allowed to take part in a pub competition," the man growled. "He should be in a proper team, playing proper matches, not a spur-of-the moment thing like this."  
   
Doyle looked his interest. "I've just come in," he offered.  
   
"Oh - well, there were so many of us wanted a game that Joe and Andy thought the fairest thing would be a knock-out competition - everyone who wanted to play put five bob into a kitty, the winners to get two-thirds of it, the losers in the final the other third."  
   
Doyle nodded, knowing the routine; he'd seen it done before.  
   
"Only that fellow's unbeatable. You know, the luckiest man in the pub is Andy - he ended up partnering hot-shot there. Sheer luck of the draw."  
   
"You got knocked out early on?" Doyle guessed.  
   
"Up against Andy 'n him first round."  
   
"Tough luck," Doyle sympathised, not really meaning it - he knew that the speaker was a less than average player who would have been knocked out in the first round anyway.  
   
He made his drink last until the competition finished, then slipped away as the kitty was being paid out, trying to decide what the incident said about his new partner.  
   
Doyle knew that although Cowley had said "Don't be late", he would actually expect him in early next day, if only to argue once more against having a permanent permanent partner instead of a permanent occasional one; but having reluctantly realised that Cowley really meant it, Doyle decided to surprise his boss by making no more complaints until he had at least given Bodie a fair trial. He had certainly been impressed enough by the man's fitness. The only question was whether their personalities would mesh.  
   
Formally introduced, they were dismissed with another simple surveillance job to keep them amused. Doyle glanced at Cowley before he turned to leave, and read the older man's thoughts easily enough; given this job, they would seek to lessen the boredom by talking; talking would let them get to know each other, at least superficially.  And it would be superficially, Doyle knew, for there was a great deal about his own early life that he would not reveal - and from what Cowley had told him about Bodie's background, he reckoned that Bodie, too, would have a lot of secrets to keep.  
   
Doyle headed for his car leaving his new partner to follow. The drive was made in silence; and while it was not exactly an uncomfortable silence, it could not have been called comfortable either. Neither man felt he had anything to say to the other.  
   
The building being used for the surveillance was a school; King and Matheson had been there since midnight, and now, just after 9, it was time to relieve the sleepy agents. Doyle parked in the part of the playground that the teachers used for their cars, and as they crossed it heading for the main door, Doyle spotted Matheson, who had obviously left the building earlier to collect his car, sitting in it, apparently absorbed in a newspaper. He ignored his fellow agent and moved briskly up the steps into the building, Bodie - who, of course, did not know Matheson - at his heels. A quick stop at the secretary's office to report their presence and they went to the room being used for the surveillance. King was ensconced behind a bookcase which hid him from obvious sight without interfering with his view of the house being watched.  
   
Doyle quickly introduced Bodie to King, who yawned widely as he made his report. "Nothing. Not a dickybird. No movement at all. The light went out last night about 11, according to Murph, and the curtains are still drawn. Right lazy sods in there, they are!"  
   
"Out of work, nothing to get up for?" Bodie offered.  
   
"Well, their eight hours' beauty was up at 7," Doyle grunted.  
   
"Yes, if they weren't havin' it off till early morning," Bodie suggested.  
   
"Havin' it off? Bodie, it's three blokes in therel"  
   
"So? Come on, Doyle, Cowley told me you'd been a copper. You're not that naive!"  
   
No, Doyle was not that naive, but he was surprised by the casualness of Bodie's comment.  
   
King glanced from one to the other, reading a faint animosity in both men's attitude and correctly identifying the cause - he knew Doyle's antipathy to having a partner, especially a new man, and could guess that the self-sufficient-looking Bodie felt much the same way.  
   
"Well, I'll leave you two to come to a decision," he told them. "Me, I'm off to get my eight hours' beauty. Must keep my boyish good looks!" he camped.  
   
From the window they watched as King left the school grounds, paused, and gave a two-fingered salute towards the building before heading down the road. Both men appreciated the bad-tempered way King moved - it would be easy enough for someone watching to assume that he had come from a not-very-satisfactory interview with the head teacher about his offspring. A minute or so later, Matheson put down his paper and drove away - once round the corner and out of sight he would pick up his partner.  
   
Doyle moved to sit at the carefully-sited binoculars, and peered through them. "Right," he grunted. "Drawn curtains, no movement." He leaned back, tilting the chair to an angle just short of overbalancing it, and hooked one foot under the bookcase, knowing that the weight of books would hold it steady. "So - what did you think of our Brian?"  
   
Bodie frowned slightly. "Brian?"  
   
"Macklin. The sadist at the gym. Don't tell me you didn't meet 'im - all the new boys do."  
   
"He's good."  
   
"That all you can say?"  
   
"What else is there to say? The man's good at his job.He taught me a few moves I didn't know - " _Is there a touch of pique there?_ Doyle wondered, " - and he sure taught some of the others a lot."  
   
Doyle grunted. "Many in your group?" he asked.  
   
"Seven."  
   
"How'd you rate them?"  
   
"How'm I supposed to rate them? I'm new, same as them."  
   
"Yes, but you have an SAS background. Paras. The Cow told me that much when he told me he was partnering us. So you were pretty good to start with. Tell me, then, how'd you rate the others in your group?"  
   
"One man, one woman, pretty good. Two men, one woman, adequate. One man - well, he'd do in a rough-house, but not much more. Wouldn't like to have to depend on 'im in an emergency. Considering everything, they've probably failed him."  
   
Doyle grunted, somewhat impressed by the quick assessment that mirrored his own but not willing to admit how much he knew. "We always need more men," he muttered. "Not the safest of jobs this - we lost three agents last week. One dead, two disabled, though one of them will probably recover enough to come back. Two women? Well, there are some jobs only women can do."  
   
"Can't say I like it. Women in the firing line."  
   
_Aha!_ thought Doyle. _A bit of old-fashioned chivalry there._ "Suppose I thought that, once," he offered. "My time in the Met taught me otherwise. Suppose there's a rapist in the park? One sniff of an obvious copper and he's off - but if that copper's a seven stone plain-clothes policewoman with a black belt, he's nicked. Some jobs only women can do."  
   
"Okay, I grant you that - but I still don't have to like it."  
   
"Women can be tougher, more ruthless, when it comes to a fight." Doyle did not add that it was something he had had to learn; but he'd learned it, as a rookie copper, the day he'd gone to the hospital to book one of the rapists he'd referred to, who had tackled one of the aforementioned black belt policewomen - a lightly-built blonde who, minus make-up, looked about sixteen - and hadn't had the sense to discontinue his attack when she proved capable of defending herself. She had calmly, quietly and without any fuss broken his leg when he continued his assault. Doyle, who had not hesitated to express his doubts about sending such a frail-looking bird out as a decoy in an undertone meant to be heard, had never forgotten the Super's subsequent quiet, "Remember, Doyle - never take anything at face value." As a reprimand it had stung surprisingly sharply.  
   
Bodie looked at him thoughtfully. "Believe in women's lib, then?"  
   
"Most women aren't as strong as men - apart from that, don't see why they can't do anything a man can. 'M not sure they don't have more stamina than men, though, come to think of it."  
   
Bodie grunted noncomittally. He gazed towards the curtained window for some moments, then said, "Get that cheekbone bashed when you were a cop?"  
   
It was a question he had been asked before, and he had a ready answer. "Nah. Accident when I was a kid." It was only half-true, but it saved him having to go into details, and he'd found most people accepted the flat comment at face value.  
   
"Must have worried your parents, an injury that close to your eye?"  
   
"Me Mum was in the same accident - she was killed. That gave me Dad more to think about than my cheek." _And the Lord knows, that's true!_ he thought.  
   
"S'pose it would."  
   
"Where do you come from, anyway?" Bodie's voice was remote, as if he didn't really care.  
   
"Derby way. Wasn't much work up there so I came here, got a job as a graphics artist for a while, then after a year or two I joined the fuzz. What about you?"  
   
"Liverpool. Stowed away on a freighter when I was fourteen - course, I was caught and put to work - jumped ship when we reached. Africa. Worked as a mercenary for a while, then came home again, had a stint with the SAS and the Paras, and now ..."  
   
"Good old CI5. Well, you could do worse. There has to be someplace with longer hours, less time off, more chance of stopping a bullet, worse opportunities for a social life -" He watched Bodie out of the corner of his eye.  
   
"So why do you stick it, then?" The new man wasn't rising to the bait, and Doyle grinned to himself as the situation was tossed back to him.  
   
"The small print in the contract. We can't resign. Cowley can kick us out, we can be invalided out if we're completely crippled, but we can't resign. He always says he owns us - but I'll tell you this," he added, completely serious now. "Once he gets his teeth into something, he doesn't let go - and he backs his men all the way unless he's warned us beforehand that it's an operation Susie - in which case we know beforehand it's our necks if anything goes wrong. That's why every man - and woman - in CI5 obeys him without question. Oh, he'll give us a right bawling out if he thinks we've screwed up - and he's got a pretty short fuse where screwing up's concerned. But it's all tied in with the way he hates terrorists, extortionists, killers... "  
   
"But he expects us to kill?"  
   
"We're killing the killers, Bodie - do you have another name?"  
   
"William Andrew Philip - and don't expect an answer if you use 'em."  
   
"Any reason?"  
   
"Don't like 'em."  
   
"Nobody ever give you a nickname, then? Or why not pick a name - any name - you like, and use it? 'S legal enough to do that."  
   
"My name's Bodie and I answer to that, Doyle - and only to that."  
   
"Okay, okay - just tryin' to be friendly."  
   
"We may have to work together, Doyle - there's no law says we have to be pals as well as partners."  
   
Doyle glanced at him for a moment, trying to read Bodie's body language as well as the undernote of something in his voice, and decided that Bodie had probably been badly let down by someone he had trusted and called a friend, and wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.  
   
"Fair enough," he said airily. "If that's the way you want it, fine by me. Ah! Movement!" He peered through the binoculars. "Just opening the curtains... still wearing pyjamas, lazy, lazy! Puttin' the kettle on... Don't look as if they're in a hurry to go anywhere."  
   
The day passed slowly. One man left the flat being watched and went to a metal-windowed small grocer's in the graffitied, half-empty row of shops between his house and the school, returning home ten minutes later with a bag of groceries. Since nobody else had been near the shop for half an hour before that, it was pretty obvious that unless the shopkeeper was involved, the shopping trip was exactly what it seemed to be, but Doyle pulled out his RT and called in.  
   
"One of the blokes in the house went to the grocer in the parade of shops down the road. I don't think it was anything more than getting in some milk and bread, but it might be just as well to send in someone to eyeball the place."  
   
"Acknowledged, 4.5. "  
   
He flicked off the RT. A few minutes later he recognised the woman who walked down the street and into the shop. She left again shortly after, carrying a shopping bag, and Doyle knew that the shop had been checked and cleared.  
   
He shared the use of the binoculars with Bodie, careful to be scrupulously fair about it, but there was very little sign of life from the house as the day went on. They had sandwiches at mid-day, and the school secretary brought them tea then as well as mid-morning and mid-afternoon; they drank it gratefully, both glad of something to occupy a little time.  
   
A few parents entered and left the school during the day; Doyle recognised the two female trainees as they entered the building in the late afternoon.  
   
A few minutes later the door opened and one of the female agents entered, laughing at something the secretary had said. She and Bodie nodded to each other. "Doyle, meet Susie Fischer," Bodie introduced.  
   
"'Lo, Fischer," Doyle said, playing it straight because he knew her to be lesbian, but also partly because there was a faint gleam in Bodie's eye that spoke of setting his new partner up.  
   
"Doyle," she acknowledged. She glanced out of the window as the secretary disappeared. "No sign of life?"  
   
"No - are you here till tomorrow morning?" Doyle asked.  
   
"Think I'm not up to it?" she demanded.  
   
"No, just that it gets lonely on solitary stakeout, especially at night. And a 17-18 hour stint is bloody long for anyone. Damned sure I wouldn't like it." He knew she wouldn't be alone, but he also remembered that he wasn't supposed to have seen any of the new intake while they were still in training - and he knew that Bodie must have seen the two women entering the building.  
   
"No, I'm only on till midnight - and not alone.  My partner's having a word with the head teacher." Only slightly mollified, she glanced suspiciously at him. "Did you really think I'd be left all night?"  
   
"Wouldn't be the first time," he replied gloomily. "If Cowley could get away with having us on duty 168 hours a week, that's the hours we'd work. Believes in making us earn our money, he does." He stretched, grunting luxuriously. "'S all yours. Dunno whether to wish you as quiet a shift as we've had, or hope you get a bit more action. 'Ave fun, anyway."  
   
He turned towards the door. Bodie grinned at the girl, his attitude identical to the one he would have taken with a man. "At least you won't have a nosy partner tryin' to make conversation all the time." He spoke loudly enough to be overheard, and Doyle shrugged mentally. It was basically a reiteration of what Bodie had said to his face - just because they were partners didn't mean they had to be friends. Well, that was fine by Doyle. He'd offered sociability, more because he felt he should than because he wanted to, and been turned down. No skin off his nose. The last thing he wanted was to get emotionally involved with a partner.  
   
Back at his car, though, remembering that they had come in it, he glanced at Bodie. "Where do you want dropping off?"  
   
"Don't bother, I can get a bus," Bodie replied ungraciously.  
   
"'Ad a look at the timetables, then, 'ave we? The buses here run an hourly service, mate. You've just missed one and there's no guarantee you'll get on the next - it could be full by the time it gets here. So where do you want to be dropped off?"  
   
Bodie hesitated for a moment longer, then opened the passenger door. "Anywhere in town'll be okay," he said. "I've some shopping to do."  
   
"Okay."  
   
Doyle made no attempt to restart a conversation as he drove; he'd tried once, he wasn't going to give his partner the chance to cut his nose off again.

   
  
***  
 

  
Doyle did some shopping for himself, welcoming the rare opportunity for a leisurely wander round the shops to stock up instead of his usual mad rush five minutes before closing time - or the regular carry-out that was the too-usual eating habit of most CI5 agents whose work tended to finish at all sorts of odd hours.  
   
Home again, he thought over his day as he prepared a meal.  
   
He knew little more about Bodie than he had at the same time yesterday, he decided - on the other hand, Bodie knew little more about him, either. They had both skated warily over the thin ice of acquaintanceship, neither willing to reveal much about themselves.  
   
Perhaps, Doyle thought, Bodie might have been a little more forthcoming if I'd said more, but he excused his own silence on the familiar grounds of shame regarding his father, who had nearly killed him and then killed his mother as she tried to protect him; it had then been discovered that Thomas Doyle had been sexually abusing his daughter since just after her fifth birthday. No, Doyle did not want to talk about his background to anyone except in the most general of terms.  
   
Had Bodie perhaps come from the same sort of background? Nah. Child abuse was not uncommon, certainly, but despite his police background - or perhaps because of it - Doyle was reasonably certain that his experience was pretty extreme. Though... left home at fourteen? A kid had to be pretty desperate to leave home that young.  
   
And Doyle still didn't know how easy it would be to work with Bodie. A simple surveillance job - and Doyle was far from convinced that it was genuine; it could have been set up to test the conscientiousness of the new recruits, with one or two of the 'old hands' included as cover. It was exactly the sort of thing Cowley would do, Doyle knew.  
   
He ate, savouring the home-prepared meal; he quite enjoyed cooking, and indulged himself whenever he could. Unfortunately, lack of ingredients because of late hours too often meant a carry-out - and while he enjoyed one occasionally, he hated having to depend on them.  
   
He then started on some of the much-neglected housework that depended on the odd early finish, like today's. An hour later the place looked much better, and Doyle made himself a cup of tea with a sigh of relief. He hated housework, while admitting its necessity, for he didn't much like living in a mess either. He sank into his usual seat and flicked on the TV - he could catch the last of the athletics before deciding what to do with the rest of the evening. Halfway through the 5000 metres, the screen blanked and the word "NEWS FLASH" appeared. A newsreader appeared. "News has just come through of an explosion - "  
   
The phone rang and Doyle reached for it. He didn't even have time to give his name before - "Report to Mr Cowley at Paddington Station, 4.5."  
   
"On my way." He paused long enough to flick the TV off and set the alarms on his door before diving down the stair. Quick as he was, Bodie was before him - _He,_ Doyle decided, _must live nearer Paddington than I do._ The area was swarming with police cars and ambulances; Doyle made his way to where Bodie was standing beside Cowley. "What happened?"  
   
"There was no warning," Cowley said. "The first we knew about it was a 999 call from a member of the public. It appears to have been a car bomb. Ah - " He turned slightly to face the police officer who was approaching.  
   
"Mr Cowley? Sorry to have kept you waiting. As far as we can make out, this is a bomb that exploded prematurely; the occupants of the car involved were killed instantly. The car itself was reported stolen this morning. There is no indication of what the planned target might have been."  
   
"Killed by their own bomb? Poetic justice," Bodie muttered.  
   
"Aye, laddie, but eight other people were killed as well, to say nothing of the ones injured," Cowley growled. "All right, Inspector, I'll get someone on to it and see if we can turn up something." He was looking at Doyle as he spoke, and Doyle knew that he - and probably Bodie - was the 'someone' in question.  
   
"Thank you, sir." The inspector turned away, heading back to the wreckage of what had once been a very nice Austin Princess.  
 

  
  
***

   
  
An hour later they were no nearer finding out anything about the dead bombers, who were still unidentified. The legal owner of the car had indeed reported it stolen just after 8 that morning, when he left home to go to work. He was far from amused to discover that it had been destroyed, while being fair enough to accept that it was not the fault of the police, CI5, or any other body representing law and order in the country.  
   
Finally reporting their negative findings back to Cowley, Doyle was relieved when his boss accepted the report philosophically and told them to go home.  
   
He glanced at his watch, saw that despite the amount he'd done that evening it was still half an hour till closing time, and glanced at Bodie.    "Fancy a quick pint?" he asked.  
   
Bodie took the few seconds as they went down the stair to think about it. "Okay," he said, and if his voice was slightly unenthusiastic Doyle pretended not to notice.  
   
"The pub across the road's not too bad - doubt there'll be any of the other lads in now, but it's the nearest thing to a steady local that any of us have."  
   
"It's not that local to you, though, is it?" Bodie was clearly making conversation despite his earlier dismissal of such a convention, but he wasn't making a terribly good job of it.  
   
"No, but some of us drop in after work, especially if we've been working late."  
   
They settled for a half pint, and more for the sake of doing something better than just sitting glowering at each other, Doyle suggested a game of darts, seeing that the board was unused.  
   
Bodie hesitated. "I'm pretty good," he said.  
   
"I'm not too bad myself," Doyle replied cheerfully. "Not professional standard, granted, but I'm not bad when I'm on my game."  
   
He had the advantage of knowing just how well Bodie could play, while Bodie did not know his standard.  
   
Bodie won the first game; Doyle won the second, and Bodie threw him a respectful, if somewhat surprised, glance. But before they could have a decider, the barman called "Time!"  
   
They left the bar, if not on more friendly terms than they had entered it, at least on less hostile terms. Doyle, of course, had the advantage of already knowing something of the quality of Bodie's abilities; _But it's odd,_ he thought, _how something as simple as a game of darts has made him see me as someone who can pull his weight!_  
   
"Have you got wheels yet?" he asked casually as they reached the road.  
   
"Not yet," Bodie admitted.  
   
"Want a lift?"  
   
Bodie hesitated, but self-sufficient though he appeared to be, he was clearly thinking twice about making his solitary way through the dark streets at this time of night. "Thanks," he muttered. "If it won't be putting you out of your way?"  
   
"Where are you staying?"  
   
Bodie told him.  
   
Doyle nodded. "It's not too far from where I am," he said. _Yes, it is nearer Paddington,_ he thought, _but only because there's a tube handy. He must've been pretty quick off the mark though, to get there as fast as he did._  
   
As he stopped to let Bodie off, he said, "I'll pick you up tomorrow morning about 8. There's no point in you fighting the commuter traffic on the tube if you don't have to."  
   
He paused only long enough to register Bodie's nod, and drove off.  
 

  
  
***  
 

  
  
Once in his own flat, he poured himself a whisky - having acquired a taste for single malt from Cowley - and sank into his favourite armchair, thinking over the day's events as he savoured the first sip.  
 

_Bodie's definitely good,_ he thought, telling himself what he already knew. _But we'll need to stop bein' so cagey with each other if this partnership's goin' to be the success the Cow needs it to be_. At the same time, he knew how difficult it would be for him to stop being so cagey. _'Me Mum was killed in the same accident - gave me Dad more to think about than my cheek.'_ He thought again, ruefully, of the words he had spoken so easily, repetition making them automatic. What would Bodie think if he knew the truth?  
   
Certainly time, and sympathetic foster parents, had diminished the sense of guilt that he felt about his mother's death, but nothing anyone had said had helped lessen his shame that he had not been able to do anything to help his younger sister, especially since she herself had never recovered from the abuse she had suffered. With the possible exception of himself, she had never completely trusted another man since being taken into care - and he was not altogether sure that she completely trusted even him.  
   
Shaking off the depression that memory of his childhood always engendered, Doyle finished his drink with a speed the Cow would have deprecated and went to bed.  
 

  
***

  
  
Although he arrived at Bodie's flat a couple of minutes early next morning, Doyle found his partner already waiting on the pavement. He half-frowned to himself, not sure whether to applaud the man's promptness or deplore it as an obvious wish to keep Doyle at arm's length by refusing him admittance to his flat. He decided to assume it was the former reason, and with a cheerful, "Mornin'," he swung his car smoothly back into the line of traffic.  
   
Bodie merely grunted, and they completed the journey to HQ in an uneasy silence. Betty, the cool, unflappable secretary, looked up as they passed her desk. "Mr Cowley wants to see you both right away, 4.5."  
   
"Okay, love." Without breaking stride, Doyle swung round towards Cowley's door. He knocked and walked straight in, Bodie at his heels.  
   
Cowley had been studying some papers, but looked up instantly. "Ah, Doyle. Bodie. There is an Arab diplomat arriving at Heathrow at 9.45. You are to shadow him and see who he meets apart from the PM - his meeting at Downing Street is timed for 3 pm. He may of course simply go straight to his hotel, in which case you will see if anyone visits him there."  
   
Doyle frowned. "What about his driver? Won't he - "  
   
"His car - and the driver and his official escort - are being supplied by his Embassy."  
   
Bodie cleared his throat. "Is he actually booked in at a hotel?" he asked. "Mightn't he go straight to his Embassy? 'Ave a natter with his Ambassador, see anyone he wants to see there? And stay there? They'll have guest apartments, won't they?"  
   
Doyle, with an instant understanding of Cowley's reasoning, shook his head. "Good suggestion, Bodie," he answered in the polite tone a man would adopt towards a complete stranger he was trying to let down lightly, "but it doesn't work that way. They know that we keep an eye on their Embassy - oh, all very quiet and tactful and unobtrusive, but we notice who visits, especially if they're foreigners. Foreign to the Embassy, that is. At a hotel, anyone could go in, and nobody on surveillance could say that they're anything other than innocent guests. Do we know which hotel, sir?"  
   
Cowley nodded and gave him the address.  
   
He raised surprised eyebrows. "Four star? Isn't that rather beneath the dignity of a sheik from one of the oil-producing countries?"  
   
"That was what alerted us in the first place. Oh, he could have plenty of perfectly good reasons for choosing a four star hotel instead of somewhere like the Hilton, but it does seem somewhat out of character - most of these Arab diplomats have a very strong sense of their own importance, and the cash to back it. But a smaller, less prestigious hotel isn't going to notice as readily if someone slightly - shall we say - less than totally respectable calls, even if it is to see one of their guests."  
   
Doyle thought for a moment. "Can we get a room there at this sort of notice?" he asked.  
   
"Unfortunately, no; while they haven't tried to persuade anyone who's already booked to move out, they did reserve all the empty rooms for their party."  
   
Doyle grunted. "Which either means he has a huge entourage, he likes his privacy, or he has something to hide." He paused for a split second to give the Controller a chance to comment, but Cowley remained silent. "Okay, sir - we're on our way."  
 

  
***  
 

  
Waiting for a gap in the traffic near Heathrow, he glanced at Bodie. "That hotel's gonna have a very happy management right now," he commented. "Fully booked, and most of the rooms that he's paid for won't be used." He slid the car onto the road, smoothly picking up speed to match that of the traffic.  
   
Bodie looked slightly doubtful.    "Don't those Arabs usually have a lot of hangers-on milling around?" he asked.  
   
Doyle mentally acknowledged that Bodie had not been fazed by having his earlier suggestion dismissed, albeit politely; he was perfectly willing to put forward another point, and it was a valid one, deserving another polite refusal.  
   
"Yes, they do, but this one isn't bringing his harem along or the Cow'd've said. I'd guess not more'n half a dozen - but more probably he just has a couple of aides/bodyguards." Silence fell again, Doyle feeling that they had exhausted the topic and Bodie either unwilling or unable to contribute anything more - Doyle was far from sure which, but he suspected the latter.  
   
He drove into a car park - which turned out to be full - and flashed his ID under the nose of an attendant who looked ready to challenge them when he stopped the car close to the exit, clearly intent on staying there. "We'll need to sit where we can see, and be able to leave in a hurry - there's a VIP coming in at 9.45, has a meeting with the Prime Minister later today, and we're here to supply covert security - there's been a death threat from a dissident group. My boss thinks it's a false alarm but there'd be a pretty nasty diplomatic incident if it did turn out to be serious and we'd ignored it."  
   
The attendant retreated, shaking his head, and Bodie said dryly, "You make a good liar."  
   
"Only on the job," Doyle replied somewhat mendaciously, for he was good at lying about his life prior to joining CI5 too. "You sometimes have to tell 'em something, and 'death threat to VIP' sounds good." He checked the time. "Nearly half-past nine. We won't have long to wait," he said unnecessarily, more to fill the silence than because he felt it needed to be said. Bodie grunted an acknowledgement, Doyle suspected from the stiff politeness that already seemed to be the main feature of their partnership.  
 

  
  
***  
 

  
Silence fell again. Planes landed, planes took off.  
   
A gleaming black limousine with darkened windows drove past the entrance to the car park, and Doyle said, "Looks like 'is majesty's transport's arrived."  
   
Bodie checked his watch. "Timed pretty nicely. The plane should have landed a minute ago."  
   
Doyle frowned. "Yes it should, shouldn't it. I wonder. Timing's too tight. If Abdul's as big a hotshot as all that, the last thing they'd do is risk making him wait for 'is taxi." He reached for the RT. "4.5 to Base."  
   
"Go ahead, 4.5."  
   
"What looks like the official car has just arrived - but I think it's a red herring. It has darkened windows so nobody'd know who was in it when it drives out again. I think there's another, less flashy, car already here and that's the one the sheik'll be in - and how we'll know which one it is'll be pure guesswork."  
   
"Alpha One here," Cowley's voice broke in. "You could be right, but it might just have been held up in the traffic. Follow the limousine; I'll send someone else direct to the hotel."  
   
"Right, sir. Will do." He flicked the RT off.  
   
A couple of minutes later, Bodie said, "There's the limo."  
   
"This is definitely a red herring," Doyle grunted. "Even if Abdul was rushed through the formalities, that car's coming out too damn' soon. I've never seen anyone get away from an airport as quick as this."  
   
"You reckon?" Bodie asked as Doyle started the engine.  
   
"The plane's landed - probably, as long as it was right up to time. But then it has to taxi to its bay, the passengers get off - in this case, Abdul might be allowed off first - but then his party 'as to get from the bay, through the formalities - which probably were just formalities for Abdul - then get to the car, be greeted by whoever has come to collect 'im, get into the car... No, all that'd take more than five minutes." He nodded to the RT as he slid the car smoothly out of the car park with two cars between him and the black limo. "Call in."  
   
Bodie reached for the RT. "3.7 to base."  
   
"Base here. Go ahead."  
   
"We're in pursuit of the limo, but we think it's driven away too soon for it to have picked up any passengers."  
   
"Acknowledged. Alpha One says stay with it."  
   
"Right." Bodie closed the channel and glanced at Doyle, who shrugged.  
   
"Ours not to reason why. Cowley says stick with it - we stick with it."  
   
The car led them to its Embassy, where it stopped. Doyle drove smoothly past muttering under his breath as he failed to find anywhere suitable to park. Bodie twisted round to watch the car; a figure climbed out, a figure that might have been the expected sheik, and was ushered in as Doyle was forced to drive around a comer.  
   
"Well?" Doyle asked, having been unable to see anything pertinent in his mirror. Bodie reported what he had seen, and Doyle shook his head. "I still think it's a fake, set up to lead anyone like us away from where Abdul wanted to go this morning. That fella was probably in the car all along - those darkened windows hide too much."  
   
"Does it occur to you you might be being paranoid about this?" Bodie asked.  
   
"No, it bloody doesn't!" Doyle snapped. "Don't go thinking you know everything just because you passed fit to join C15. All that means is that you're physically fit, know a fair amount of unarmed combat, can shoot straight - it doesn't mean you're any good at the sort of double-think you need to stay a jump or two ahead of the bad guys. And if you're naive enough to believe in the honesty of politicians of any colour, race or creed, you don't belong in CI5." He reached irritably for the RT. "4.5 to base."  
 

  
  
***

   
  
They returned to HQ with Bodie clearly quietly fuming at Doyle's comments, but equally clearly not quite ready to start a fight over them, and Doyle mentally awarded his partner full points for his self-control, even although he knew he had been unnecessarily irritable with Bodie's comment.  
   
He parked the car, but when Bodie made to get out, he reached over and put a restraining hand on the man's arm. "Sorry," he grunted. "What I said - I over-reacted. I've got a pretty short fuse where violence and terrorism are concerned, and Abdul - well, we haven't been able to prove anything, but we've got good reason to suspect his government's got strong links with the PLO. I was just furious that they were that much ahead of us in their planning."  
   
"Okay," Bodie said. "You were right, though," he admitted. "I was being naive. By the time I've been in the job a few months... I suppose that's why Mr Cowley partners new boys with old hands? Keeps us from dewy-eyed idealism?"  
   
"Not always," Doyle commented. "He might put two new boys together, if he thought they'd make a good pairing - but they'd be on fairly routine work for a while, till they developed a bit of CI5 street-wisdom. Time it takes varies. Couple of months. Six months. A year."  
   
Bodie grunted. "You mean cynicism." There was something in his eyes that Doyle could not readily interpret, a kind of sadness, that made the experienced man wonder if his new partner really was suitable for the job.  
   
"I mean always looking for the hidden undertones, looking between the lines, never really taking anything at face value," Doyle replied. "'S not exactly cynicism. You can be as wrong by being too cynical as you can by being too trusting. In this job you trust yourself, possibly your partner - and nobody else. Not even Cowley. Because if 'e has to throw us to the lions - he will. Oh, 'e'd regret doing it 'n' 'e'd see to it that any dependants were properly cared for - but we're expendable, Bodie - an' don't you ever forget it."  
   
He led the way into the building.  
   
Inside, they found Murphy throwing unenthusiastic darts at a board that had seen better days. A dart hit double twenty and bounced off again, that part of the board too worn to let the dart stick more than half the time.  
   
"We ought to have a whip-round for a new board," Doyle told him.  
   
"Oh, I dunno," Murphy said. "We could always try to persuade the Cow that we need a new one - that it'd be good for morale if we did."  
   
"Yeah, an' pigs might fly. He'd tell us we're here to do a job, not to play darts."  
   
"No harm in hoping. Thought you were on surveillance?"  
   
"It sort of died on us. We ended up following a false trail."  
   
"Uncle isn't going to be pleased."  
   
"He can be as displeased as he likes," Doyle retorted, "seein' as he gave us a direct order to follow the fake car." Murphy lifted an eyebrow. "Course, maybe we were a red herring too - an obvious tail following an obvious lead while the real tail was tucked anonymously away somewhere." He headed for his desk. "Meanwhile, I'd better get my report written - such as it is."  
 

  
***  
 

  
  
Bodie settled surprisingly quickly into CI5 routine, and it was not long before Doyle, to his satisfaction, found they were doing the sort of work that he'd been accustomed to as a solo agent. He was surprised at how easily they developed an understanding of each other, an almost telepathic awareness of what the other would do, but he chose not to question it, considering himself lucky to have found what he hadn't believed existed - a partner he actually trusted completely. Oh, there were times Bodie could be a right bastard - but then there were times when he was a right bastard too; and Bodie was surprisingly patient with him when he was at his moody worst. And if Bodie was secretive about his past - Doyle flatly refused to believe some of his more outrageous stories - so too was Doyle, who had told Bodie all he intended to.  
   
It couldn't last forever, Doyle knew. Although they seemed to lead charmed lives, it couldn't last forever. One day their luck would run out. Meanwhile, however, he accepted the companionship he was offered, both on and - finally - off duty, enjoying the rare pleasure of having a real friend among his workmates. Basically introverted, he had to work at the casual insult-strewn camaraderie that was part of CIS life. With Bodie he could relax, let his innate sensitiveness show, and in turn he accepted unquestioningly the love of all sorts of beauty that Bodie kept hidden from everyone else.  
   
It was almost amusing, he reflected. CIS's top tough team, both of them soft as butter inside...  
   
But it couldn't last. One day their luck would run out...  
 

  
***  
 

  
  
"Doyle!"  
   
Bodie ran to his partner. God - so much blood! But he was still alive. Still alive... What to do? Telephone... Damn! It had been ripped away from the wall. Not for the first time, Bodie cursed his carelessness in leaving his RT in the car. He should have known there was something serious happening! That was the trouble - he had known there was something wrong; which was why he hadn't delayed long enough to pick up the RT.  
   
Something to staunch the bleeding... He rushed to the kitchen, grabbed towels, stuffed them under Doyle's clothes against the wounds and raced along the landing, down the stair, into the car and grabbed the RT.  


  
***  


  
  
He was surprised at the speed with which Doyle recovered his strength, once he left hospital. He had always realised that Doyle had remarkable stamina, as well as healing quickly no matter how severe the injury, and he knew how hard Doyle worked at regaining his full fitness. Even so, Doyle was back at work a full month before Bodie had thought it possible - light duties only, at first, but after a week of surveillance Doyle insisted he was able to return to the street.  
   
Cowley gave Bodie a quick look when he knew Doyle wasn't watching, and Bodie knew exactly what was meant; he nodded slightly. Yes, he would keep an eye on Doyle for a few days, make sure he wasn't overdoing things - even though he had passed his medical!  
   
Bodie found himself surprisingly pleased to have Doyle back beside him. He had come to respect his partner, but he had also surprised himself at his concern when he found Doyle bleeding to death. He had managed to avoid getting too personally involved with anyone for so long he hadn't realised the extent to which his often irritating partner had wormed his way into his life.  
   
_Not a good idea, mate!_ he told himself - but he found himself unwilling to do anything about it.  
   
Fortunately - from Cowley's and Bodie's points of view - Doyle's return to the street coincided with a quiet spell and they found themselves with a few days off. Doyle, however, chose to spend part of the first morning at the gym.  
   
"I'm fit enough again or I wouldn't have passed the medical," he commented, "but I'll still have to work at it for a while. Can't afford to get lax. Not if I want to stay on the street."  
   
They sparred for a while, with Bodie careful not to overstretch his partner. Eventually Macklin strolled over. "Ray, go and work out on the bars. You've made a great recovery, but your muscle tone isn't quite what it was. You need to build up those arms again."  
   
Doyle nodded, knowing that Macklin was right. Macklin watched him begin a moderately arduous exercise as he went on, "And Bodie, you're not getting a full workout; Doyle's still better than a lot of the squad but he's not quite fit enough yet to make you use everything you've got."  
   
"I know," Bodie said ruefully. "I'm trying not to let it influence me, but I'm scared of overstretching him. Those chest scars are still quite tender. I'd hate it to be my fault if one of them split, 'n threw him back on the sick list again."  
   
Macklin nodded, knowing exactly what Bodie meant. "But you won't need to hold back with me, will you?"  
   
Bodie grinned agreement as they faced up to each other; he dodged Macklin's opening kick effortlessly, then they were sparring with no holds barred.  
   
On the bars, Doyle paused for some minutes and watched, noting the ease with which Bodie dodged the best that Macklin could do. _Yes,_ he thought. _That's my Bodie..._  
 

  
***

  
   
  
Bodie followed Doyle into his new flat and parked himself in a chair. "Well - what else do you want to do with your holiday?"  
   
Doyle looked at him. "I'm not sure... " There was clearly something on his mind, and Bodie waited patiently for him to go on.  
   
"Was watching you today, sparring with Macklin," he said finally.  "He didn't make contact once. Almost like you were reading his mind."  
   
"Just a matter of watching your opponent's body language," Bodie said offhandedly, but there was a slightly wary look in his eyes. "You're not bad at it yourself."  
   
"True, but I'm not as good at it as you." Doyle fell silent again, his eyes on his partner, noting that fractional wariness. When he did speak at last, his question left Bodie almost speechless.  
   
"Bodie - how do you spell your name?"  
   
"How...? I thought it was your chest took those bullets, sunshine, not your brain!"  
   
"Don't change the subject, mate. How do you spell your name?"  
   
"How do you think I spell it? B-o-d-i-e."  
   
"Do you really? I think it's B-e-a-u-d-e-a-g-h."  
   
Bodie froze for a moment. "What? Now what put that into your head?"  
   
"There have been a few things... but mainly something... when I was in hospital... I was half conscious some of the time... You were sitting beside me, and something you muttered - I only half heard it, but it sounded like 'Lugh, help him'." Now that Doyle had made up his mind, he was not about to give up. He was too sure of his facts.  
   
"Lord. I said lord. I'm not much for religion, but... "  
   
"No, Bodie. Lugh - the Alfar god of healing."  
   
"Alfar?" Even to himself, Bodie's voice sounded unconvincing. "Who are - what is - the Alfar?"  
   
"I think you're Alfar, Bodie. I think you're an elf."  
   
"Doyle, nobody believes in elves nowadays!"  
   
"No? Ask people like me, like my sister, people who owe our lives to the elves. I'm a changeling, Bodie. You think I'm about thirty? Think again; I'm older than that, although I bet I'm not nearly as old as you are. I told you I was in an accident when I got my cheek bashed - it served, it's the story I've always told, and it's near enough the truth - but the real truth is, my father did this to me. He was drunk - he was too often drunk - and I got in his way one day when he'd had enough to make him stroppy but not enough to knock him out. He laid into me - my mother tried to stop him, and he belted her too, hard enough to kill her. I was taken into hospital, though nobody knew who was going to pay for it - it was 1920, and I'd no known relatives. One of the nurses was Alfar, and when she discovered what had happened, she arranged for a doppleganger to be left in the bed and I was taken Underhill. When I said I had a sister, they got her, too, from the orphanage where she'd been taken. My doppleganger died two days later, Kathy's lasted about a month.  
   
"I was twelve years old. Kathy was nine, nearly ten.  
   
"It was just after we'd been taken Underhill that the Alfar discovered my father had been sexually abusing Kathy since she was five. She's permanently Underhill; she never could learn to trust men again, not even an elf. She was fostered by two women. Now she helps look after newly rescued changelings, before they're fostered to Alfar families."  
   
Bodie rubbed a hand over his eyes.  
   
_Doyle a changeling... yes, that explained a lot._ Bodie relaxed completely for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. "Okay, mate. No more hiding from each other. Yes, I'm Alfar, but I haven't been back Underhill for a long time."  
   
"Why did you leave? Or rather, why did you cut yourself off? The life you've led - a lot of it has to be true, Cowley's checks would have shown up too many lies. You've been right out of touch, haven't you?"  
   
"Yes. Oh, there were reasons. I was never strong on magic. And I was always fascinated by the world of men, so it was inevitable that I'd fall in love with a human girl sooner or later. I used a glamour and 'aged' with her, but early this century, after she died... Grief can do funny things, even to an elf. I couldn't go back, face the pity, the comments that human lives are so ephemeral. Pride, I suppose... Worked in a field hospital in the first war - getting into that was easy when armed service was voluntary. Basically unskilled labour - stretcher bearers with a little first aid knowledge were always needed. Then I started travelling - didn't settle any one place, though I kept coming back to England. Managed to get ambulance duty in the second war. Then I went to Africa, got involved in the mercenary scene. I saved a few African kids while I was there - couldn't take them Underhill, there aren't the Gates in Africa and anyway I didn't want the Alfar knowing where I was, but I did get them good, caring foster homes. Eventually I ended up here. What brought you out of Underhill?"  
   
"Me? I was happy Underhill, but I'm human - I wanted to come back into the world and maybe help some other kids the way I was helped. Started off in Art College, got a job as a graphics artist, but I was never more than adequate as an artist and anyway I wasn't in a position doing that to help anyone - but it gave me a background. After that I joined the police - and now, of course, I'm in CI5. But I'm in touch with a group of Alfar living here - and they set a Gate for me, patterned for me, in whatever flat I'm in. Any time I'm feeling tired, down, I go through the Gate and spend a couple of days Underhill."  
   
"Ah. That's how you're so fit now?"  
   
"Yes. I'd a couple of months back there after I got out of hospital - came back to the same night I'd left." Doyle was silent for a moment. "Missed you, you know - wished you were there with me, but of course I hadn't dared mention it to you. It was while I was there that I started thinking and remembered a few things I'd only half registered. Like Lugh. So I got my foster parents talking about elves who had chosen to make their lives in the mortal world, and among others, my father mentioned Beaudeagh, who had gone into the mortal world then disappeared. They didn't know why; they knew he was still alive, but that was all. So I decided to take a chance that I was right and speak to you. You're missed, you know."  
   
"They didn't know why ...? You mean they never knew about my mortal wife?"  
   
"Apparently not - or if they did, they didn't associate her with your disappearance.  I didn't say anything to them about you - but I think you should come with me next time I go home. The Gate's set for me, but as long as I'm touching it, I can take anything through with me.  
   
"Underhill," Bodie whispered.  
   
Doyle looked at him sympathetically. "You're homesick, aren't you?"  
   
"Yes. Oh, I don't regret making my home here - but exile, even self-imposed, is still exile."  
   
"Then let's go now," Doyle said decisively.  
   
"Now?"  
   
"There's been time for me to get a new Gate set. We can go through for as long as you'd like, and still get back in time to have a couple of days somewhere on Mid-Earth, somewhere we can tell the lads about."  
   
"Ray... I don't deny I'm tempted, but I don't know if I'd have the strength to come back here, once I got home again."  
   
"Why did you leave in the first place? Fascinated by Mid-Earth, weren't you? Why?"  
   
"There wasn't ever much to do, Underhill. Life there can get boring after a couple of centuries. That's why so many of us came to Mid-Earth in the first place. It gave us something to do - even if it was only teasing mortals - like some of the lesser sidhe did. Puck was always a menace, even among our own kind."  
   
"You think you wouldn't get bored again? Especially when you know how exciting life on Mid-Earth can be?"  
   
Bodie smiled ruefully.    "You're right, of course. And I'd follow you," he admitted, wryly acknowledging the emotional bond he had tried so hard to ignore, "and you're going to want to come back here."  
   
"Right, mate. I still feel that the only way to repay the elves for saving me is to help as many more mortals as I can. And I can't do that Underhill." He grinned. "Still, changelings live much, much longer than mortals who've never been Underhill."  
   
"We'll have to vanish after a while, you know. Get new identities, new lives."  
   
"I know - and it's not as easy as it once was, is it? Everyone's plagued by bein' identified by numbers from birth."  
   
"Not as hard for elves, though, is it. I said I don't have much magic, but I do have that much. I can fake us both new identities when I have to."  
   
"Then that's settled." Doyle grinned. "We've got a lot to look forward to, sunshine."  
 

  
  
***  
 

  
  
Although Bodie was diffident at first about returning Underhill, he accepted Doyle's assurance that the elves would not mock his grief for his long-dead love, and to his surprise he found that his partner was right. He had been too sensitive about his affection for mortals. All the elves understood it; most of them had experienced something similar at some point in their long lives. They spent several days there while Bodie renewed some old friendships before returning to Mid-Earth and their work.  
   
From then on they seemed - as far as their fellow agents were concerned - to lead totally charmed lives. No longer afraid of betraying himself to his partner, Bodie cheerfully manipulated events as far as he was able, ensuring that neither of them were seriously hurt although he was unable to prevent them from being injured occasionally. They visited Underhill from time to time, especially after a difficult job, for there they could relax and take time to unwind in the timelessness of the world of Faery while only a few minutes passed in the mortal world, for they knew they could be contacted at almost any time if an emergency arose; Doyle's elven friends had seen to that.  
 

  
  
***  
 

  
  
It was Hallowe'en in the mortal world; the season of Samhain for the elves. Bodie seemed restless; Doyle could guess why.  
   
"You'd like to go home - celebrate Samhain, wouldn't you?"  
   
"Well, yes - it's been a long time. Did you ever... ?"  
   
"Yes, though I haven't gone home for Samhain since I came back to Mid-Earth. I wouldn't mind celebrating it again."  
   
"It can be dangerous, you know - did you know?"  
   
"Dangerous - or magnificent, depending on how you look at it. If the Homed Lord chooses you, comes for you.."  
   
"Yes. He's not likely to call you - you're a changeling; but me? It's not impossible. All Alfar who choose to celebrate know that each Samhain might be their last Underhill; and they all know that this is the year someone dear to them might be chosen, never to be seen again."  
   
"He doesn't always choose someone."  
   
"Agreed - usually he doesn't; but he has chosen twice during my lifetime that I know of." Bodie grinned suddenly. "Ray, how would you explain to Cowley if I just disappeared?"  
   
"Don't joke about it! Seriously, I don't think I'd even try. I think I'd choose to disappear too, go back Underhill for a few years. I don't think I'd like the job any more if you weren't there too."  
   
Their eyes met; Bodie managed to smile. "Know what you mean, mate. Dunno what I'd've done if you hadn't survived bein' shot - 'specially since I'd cut myself off from Underhill." He took a deep breath. "Dunno what I'll do when you die."  
   
"'S years away, mate. 'N once I get noticeably older, I can go back Underhill and stay there. And you've got your friends there again; it's not like last time when you were on your own."  
   
"Not the same. I've got too fond of you, Ray."  
   
"Yeah. I'm fond of you, too." Doyle knew exactly what Bodie meant, but he wasn't sure he wanted to head down that road just yet. Changing the subject, he said, "So are we going home for Samhain?"  
   
"I'd like to."  
   
"Then we'll go." 

  
***  
 

  
  
They had started off in a crowd of elves and some changelings, all mourning their dead of many centuries but yet intent on celebrating the rebirth of those they had lost, even though they knew that in their reborn state, those lost would still be lost to them, for the Laws stated clearly that the living should not seek to tie to them those who had passed on to a new life. As the hours passed, however, they - along with many others - found themselves drifting away from the others, seeking the solitude of the woods, finding in themselves the need to absorb the peace and tranquillity of nature.  
   
It did not occur to either of them to wonder why they should remain together; normally those who went into the Wood did so one by one, to speak their minds to the gods with nobody else to hear. At last they wandered into a small clearing; Doyle sank down with his back to an oak, while Bodie sat, cross-legged, barely leaning against a small hawthorn tree a few yards from him. Neither was aware of the young ash tree that formed the third point of the surprisingly equilateral triangle. They relaxed, neither feeling the need to speak, their minds open to whatever words the gods should choose to speak to them.  
   
Doyle spared a moment before his mind cleared to wonder what Cowley would think if he could see them now, and decided that he did not really want to know; then he fixed his gaze on the ground in front of him, and put all thoughts of Mid-Earth from him.  
   
It might have been one minute or many before he heard a voice in his mind; a quick glance towards the hawthorn showed Bodie oblivious of the voice, still intent on his own thoughts.  
  
_You have fought well against evil in the world,_ it said. _You have well repaid your debt to my people. Now I offer you a choice._  
   
_From time to time, when we find someone suitable, we gods add to our retinue of servants. I offer you a choice, you who come from the land of mortals. I would have, for my retinue, either you or the elf Beaudeagh. Beaudeagh would have a life longer than usual for an elf, but would not benefit by the number of years that you, as a mortal, would gain. For the one I did not take, it would seem that the other were dead. Which of you will I take? Speak._  
   
Doyle took only a moment to decide. "Take Beaudeagh, Lord. He has already lost one mortal who was dear to him; I would not subject him to the grief of losing another, even although his relationship with me is different from the one he had with the woman who was his wife."  
   
_You accept the grief your choice will give you? You will not remember this conversation, or the choice you have made, when you leave this place._  
   
"I accept it."  
   
_Very well. Beaudeagh is mine._

  
   
***  
 

  
  
It seemed to Doyle that no time had passed between his joining in the Samhain celebration and waking in his bed; he had no memory of gating home again. He was wide awake; leaving the bed he headed for the kitchen, glancing into the living room to see if Bodie had spent the night on the couch there as he often did, but there was no sign of his partner.  
   
The kettle boiled and he made coffee. They were due in to the office at 8, and remembering it was his turn to provide wheels, he hurriedly washed and shaved before heading off towards Bodie's flat. When his partner failed to appear after a couple of minutes, he went over to the entrance and buzzed; there was still no reply.  
   
Worried now, he used the spare key he carried and hurried into the flat.  
   
Bodie was lying in bed. Doyle shook his shoulder; there was no response. Doyle stiffened, staring at the elf's face.  
   
Unlikely as it seemed, Bodie was dead.  
   
Doyle struggled through the day somehow, glad of only one thing; that it was Bodie who had died. He remembered Bodie's words regarding the death of the woman he had loved; Bodie had only just begun to return to Underhill, only just begun to accept that the other elves would not mock him for loving a human. If it had happened again... The thought gave him only minimal comfort, but minimal though it was, there was comfort in the knowledge that Bodie would never again suffer grief. If one of them had to die, better that it was Bodie - though he knew that he would never cease to miss the elf.  
   
He did at one point realise that the doctor performing the mandatory autopsy would get quite a shock, for an elf's anatomy was not quite the same as a human's, and that questions would be asked of Cowley, and of him; he decided that he would claim total ignorance of anything unusual about his dead partner; which, just a few months earlier, would have been the truth. In a way it was still the truth, he reflected; for him, the existence of elves was not unusual. It did not occur to him to contact his Alfar friends, to see if they could spirit away Bodie's body and leave behind a mortal-seeming doppleganger.  
   
He was very tired when he finally got to bed that night, but he recognised it as mental, rather than physical, exhaustion. How he was going to get through the next few days he didn't know; how he could return to his unpartnered days he didn't know, but of one thing he was certain; he would not readily accept another partner, no matter what the Cow said. He felt that it would somehow be a betrayal of Bodie's trust if he did.  
   
Tired though he was, he was slow to fall asleep; and he woke to find himself leaning against an oak tree in a forest clearing, and remembered that they had come to listen to the gods. Then he remembered that the Horned Lord had come, and he had chosen to let the Lord take Bodie into his service. He looked around. A few feet away, Bodie was sitting, just barely touching a hawthorn, his eyes shut, and a look of such desolation on his face that Doyle found himself moving even before he had time to register that Bodie was alive, certainly before he had time to wonder why Bodie looked so lost.  
   
He caught the elf's arms tightly. "Bodie! Bodie, mate! What's wrong?"  
   
"Ray?" Bodie looked at him for a moment, his eyes alight with a joy that made Doyle feel very humble, then he threw his arms round the changeling and hugged him fiercely. "You're here... I thought I was never going to see you again... "  
   
Almost without realising it, they found themselves flat on the ground, kissing deeply, passionately. Forced at last to draw apart in order to breathe, they still clung together, cheek pressed to cheek, simply basking in each other's presence.  
   
"I have chosen well."  
   
The voice, deep and infinitely understanding, made them both look round. Standing under the oak was a shadowy figure, but they could see the antlers rising from the head. "Lord!" Bodie whispered as they rose to their knees.  
   
"Do you understand? I gave you both the same choice; you both made the same decision, to suffer grief yourself rather than give that grief to the other; to abandon your own happiness, your own chance of eternal life in Tir-nan-og, to give it to the other. The day of grief you both suffered existed only in your minds as you sat here in my grove; it, too, was a test.  
   
"I will not separate two who love each other as you do.  
   
"For many years you have both fought evil in the lands of Mid-Earth, and fought it well; there is more for you to do there still. But one day I will come for you, and take you both into my service in the land of Tir-nan-og."  
   
"Thank you, Lord," Bodie whispered.  
   
Doyle nodded agreement. "You do us great honour, Lord, especially to me, a changeling. We are yours to command."  
   
"Continue to fight evil on Mid-Earth until I come for you. You will remember meeting me, my sons, and that I am pleased with you, but in the morning you will not remember what I have said." The shadow faded.  
   
Bodie and Doyle looked at each other. Already the experience was taking on the unreality of a dream.  
   
Doyle reached for Bodie again. "One thing all that told me is how much I need you. I love you, Bodie."  
   
"Ray, I... I promised myself I'd never get that attached to a mortal again, but I did. Do you know how hard I fought it?"  
   
"I can guess. You never gave me any indication that you might want this - even after I spoke to you, even though you knew I had to know that all elves are bisexual, and even though you had to know that as a changeling, I would be too." He leaned forward and kissed Bodie lightly.  
   
Bodie uttered an inarticulate sound deep in his throat and caught Doyle to him. "This is the Homed One's grove," he said thickly. "This worships him, too."  
   
"Yes."  
   
In spite of the hunger for each other that they felt, in spite of the memory of losing the other that still quivered in each one's mind and the relief of knowing that they were still together, perhaps because of the god's promise that they would remain together, they clung together caressing gently for many minutes before they moved to kiss again; but then what started as a gentle caress deepened, their mouths opened to each other and their tongues duelled as each tried to coax the other's into his mouth.  
   
At last they pulled apart, gasping for breath. "Get your clothes offl" Bodie managed as he tore at his own garments. Doyle was quick to obey, and they fell on each other again. Doyle could sense his partner's need, and willingly accepted the submissive role, letting Bodie have his way as he mouthed the human's nipples, sucking and nibbling first one, then the other, into erection.  
   
"That's good, mate - oh, yes, that's so good!" Doyle gasped. Bodie's hand moved lower, to cup a firm buttock and pull Doyle's hips close. Doyle thrust his groin against Bodie's, the touch of Bodie's erection against his own making him cry out.  
   
And then Bodie pulled back a little. "This one for the Lord," he said thickly. Doyle nodded; they separated a little, grasping each other's erections, and stroked firmly. They were both so aroused that it took hardly any time at all before first Bodie spilled his semen on the ground and then Doyle, a moment later, climaxed, and Bodie managed to aim the ejaculation at the damp spot where his own seed had landed.  
   
They looked at each other then, calmer, their hunger briefly assuaged. "I want your seed in me now," Bodie said quietly. "Whether I suck it from you or you fuck me, I want your seed in me."  
   
Doyle nodded. "And I want yours in me," he replied, as quietly. "I want to suck it, I want you to fuck me, I want you to spill it onto my skin and rub it into me. I want to lie under you all night while you use my body for your pleasure; I want to spend other nights pleasuring you, hearing you cry out at what I do to you. Beaudeagh, oh Beaudeagh, I can never have enough of you. I love you."  
   
"Mmmm." The elf rubbed his cheek against Doyle's very gently, aware of the stubble that could hurt them both but wanting a moment of tenderness. "Love you, too, Ray." He was silent for a moment. "I thought I would never dare to love again, especially a mortal," he said, repeating an earlier comment, "but I can't resist you, sunshine. I can't resist you."  
   
Doyle chuckled softly. "You can hardly call me a mortal now that the Homed One has claimed us for his own - even though we won't remember it." There was a touch of awe in his voice. "How long do you think it will be until he calls us to him?"  
   
"Who knows?" Bodie answered. "He seemed pleased with the work we are doing in Mid-Earth; probably as long as we can continue to do it. And then... "  
   
"What do his servants do? Does anyone even know?"  
   
"No; but he is above all a god who loves justice. It could be that our work as his servants will be a continuation of our present work."  
   
"Only answering to the god instead of the Cow? Won't be much of a difference then, will it?" Doyle commented irreverently.  
   
Then Bodie's mouth closed on his again, silencing him, and he surrendered willingly to his lover's need.  
   
They had finally, albeit reluctantly, decided that they should return from the Wood, although they had also decided that they would spend some days Underhill becoming accustomed to their new intimacy before going back to Mid-Earth.  
   
Sexually sated, they were still reluctant to separate, and their hands joined as they walked. Although neither had any real idea where they were, they found it surprisingly easy to retrace their footsteps, and left the Wood close to the site of the Samhain fire.  
   
Several elves sat around the still-glowing ashes; and they were not the only Wood-wanderers still drifting out to rejoin the Alfar world. Doyle spared a moment to wonder what vision these others had seen, then saw that his foster-father was one of the elves sitting at the fire.  
   
Usdain saw them and rose to meet them. His eyes fell on their joined hands, and an eyebrow lifted. He looked directly at Bodie.  
   
"Are you sure, Beaudeagh?" he asked sternly. "I would not see my son hurt."  
   
"I have never been more sure of anything, Usdain. I love him, and for as long as he lives I will be his shield against the hurt you fear for him."  
   
Usdain turned his attention to Doyle. "And you, my son? For Beaudeagh is one of my kin, and although as a changeling you are longer-lived than is usual for mortals, your life is short compared to his. I would not see grief come to him earlier than it must."  
   
"There are no guarantees in the life we lead on Mid-Earth," Doyle replied quietly, finding it surprisingly easy to speak as though they had never had the god's promise, and realising it was the god's doing. "A bullet may still shorten my life, as it so nearly did a few weeks ago. But I will not willingly leave him. I love him."  
 

  
  
***

  
   
  
"Yes ... That's nice... " Then - "Beaudeagh... "  
   
"Mmm?" The elf raised his head from his leisurely exploration of Doyle's neck.  
   
"Am I really what you want? Am I - a human - really enough for you?"  
   
"Ray, sunshine - I could ask you the same thing. I'm just as unsure of my own desirability to you as you are of yours to me. Elf and changeling... But I know the Horned One wouldn't make a mistake. When he said he wouldn't separate us - he had read both our hearts." Already they had forgotten the god's promise of eternity, and only faintly remembered the horned god saying that he would not separate them. By tomorrow they would have forgotten even that.  
   
Then there was no room for any thought except pleasure.  
   
   
   
 

**Author's Note:**

> The initial inspiration for this story came from a drawing in one of the Down Under Expresses, called 'Bodie the Mercenary Elf'. Additional background comes from Mercedes Lackey's Serrated Edge series. 
> 
> The surveillance scene in the school is based on a police surveillance in a school where I worked 
> 
> In this universe, elves are not harmed or affected in any way by iron. 
> 
> By the end, the story is unashamedly emotional, and I make no apologies for that.


End file.
